


What Happened In Venice?

by Xekstrin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Some angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character, also moira and angela are married because I say so, but then we fuck our way through the angst so its fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xekstrin/pseuds/Xekstrin
Summary: After all the terrible things she's done, Moira just wants to go home and forget it ever happened. They won't be that lucky in the end, but for now they can pretend.





	What Happened In Venice?

Crossing borders and timezones, Moira saw the sun rise two more times before they finally flew back to Overwatch HQ. Immediately, she and her squadmates were hustled back into Jack's office. Over and over again they gave their detailed report, their version of events. All the while, three different screens were blown up on Morrison's wall, each one running a constant news cycle of explosions, of black smoke rising, of Venice.

Moira was too well-trained, too naturally cold to let any inflection enter her voice as once again Morrison called on her to report. She told it as best she could, ending it with a thin smile and a tilted head, eyes narrowed.

"Can I go now?"

Her apparatus was seized, torn from her back. The delicate tubing, the glass and silicone and carefully forged metal were roughly handled tossed aside "for inspection"—

(to be confiscated, like Gabriel's shotguns)

Just swept into a crate like it was one of Morrison's little pulse rifles, like it wasn't highly volatile and specialized technology, like it wasn’t her contribution to Overwatch as a whole, like—

Moira only started shaking when she was freed.

She walked briskly from Ops towards the living quarters, heels clicking on the crisp white tiles. Every window she passed showed her the dark sky, slowly shifting from midnight to navy to the faintest hint of blood red; the third sunrise since Venice. She didn't know the hour and couldn't guess, but she figured at this time Angela would already be at work. But still, she dared to hope.

Once she reached their quarters her hands jimmied the handle, tapping her thumb over the reader. Except she'd forgotten, the readers had been changed out last month for security reasons. Her right thumb always made the damn thing glitch, so then she had to peel her other glove off and soon she was rattling the whole door in anger, swearing under her breath.

It opened up so suddenly she stumbled forward, right into Angela's arms.

"Moira!" Her wife looked up at her, hair unkempt, face bare. Still in her sleeping gown, blinking blearily. "You're home, thank god. I saw on the news—!"

With the force of a freight train, the realization hit Moira that today was Angela's day off. Moira didn't waste another second, grabbing her by the face and kissing her breathlessly. Angela made a noise deep in her throat, somewhere between a squeak and a moan, the sound muffled by Moira's lips over hers.

She bent her knees to reach Angela better, dragging her palms down Angela's ribs, grasping her ass with both hands. This time Angela definitely groaned, but immediately after that she turned her face away to gasp. "What happened out there? Nobody knows anything, I've been hounding Morrison for an update—"

"Shhhh." Moira kissed Angela again to quiet her. "It doesn't matter. Everything is going to be fine."

A familiar flash of steel entered Angela's eyes. "That's bullshit. Tell me what happened."

No one else was capable of cutting Moira down to size quite like her. There was no way she'd be satisfied with a half-assed explanation like that. But Moira had just gotten done explaining herself ten times over, she didn't _want_ to say it again, she wanted _Angela_. She wanted to be home at last, she wanted to be safe. She wanted a reminder of why she was fighting this war to begin with.

 _All of this is for you,_ Moira wanted to remind her, though that would be terribly unfair. Her fingers tangled through blonde lengths, clutching her by the scalp and tilting her head back for another searing kiss. _I did it for you. All those terrible things, I did them for you._

When the bomb went off in Oslo her heart had almost stopped. She knew Angela had been sent out in the field with Gabriel, to get that update from Lacroix. The death toll rose and Moira had watched, pacing the floors of their empty home. Bile rising in her throat, burning her, choking her to death, hours without an update. By the time Angela finally got in contact with her she had been quietly contemplating the least painful way to end her own life.

(It would be very easy to manufacture the drugs herself and program an AI to administer them in the proper order. The anesthetic, the nerve paralyser, the one to make her heart stop.)

In the wake of that relief had been a rage so deep and so unbearable that, if left untended, would burn a path through the world. She'd been waiting eagerly for Gabriel to tap her for the mission; she wanted retribution, too.

"It all went wrong, Angela."

Her own voice sounded alien to her, cleaved in half and broken. When Angela kissed her she tasted salt, her eyes burning. Finally some of her desperation seemed to seep through to Angela, because she stopped asking questions and she just held her as Moira sank down to her level, bending over to kiss that mouth, the one whispering her name.

She was home, safe, with Angela. Her wife Angela who wore their wedding band on a chain around her neck because it got in the way of surgery. The one who idly wondered if they would ever adopt one of those many orphans left after the war, or attempt to create a child together, or if they would better serve humanity by focusing entirely on their work.

The one who stroked her hair when Moira was falling asleep with her head on Angela's lap— "Yes, just like that pet, just like that—" but now she was clutching tightly onto Moira's skull as she drank her up. Moira twisted her underwear out of the way, lapping against Angela's cunt until she was buried in wet heat, her nose brushing against pale hair.

Moira undid the top buttons of her trousers, still wearing most of her Blackwatch uniform. She reached inside, touching herself as she tended to Angela. She rolled her thumb over the tip, half-hard and throbbing faintly. It was electric. A bolt of pleasure after days of nothing but pain and frustration.

She thrust her tongue inside to drink from the source, sighing in relief at how it made Angela shout. One knee jerked up on instinct, her balance wavering, just like her orgasm, on a razor's edge.

Moira caught it in one hand, cupping under Angela's knee to open her legs wider. But she was too hasty, and soon they were fumbling and laughing to make sure Angela didn't trip. The height difference was such a bastard sometimes, but the bed was often a great equalizer.

"Angela," she said between grit teeth, guttural and deep. They didn't undress any further than they already had, her trousers pushed down and Angela's dress hiked up over her hips. They were slotted together, wet heat, friction, and Angela's body underneath her and so easy to touch. "God, I miss you."

Not missed— _miss_. She missed her all the time, not just on missions. She missed every moment she wasn't inside her, with tongue or a toy or fingers or her sex, if that's what Angela wanted. She missed the routine of their life together on base, when their schedules aligned. Whoever woke up first would make the coffee, and those mornings when Moira woke up first were the best, because she could sit and watch Angela at her most vulnerable and think _god I would rip a man's heart out with my bare hands if she asked_ —

"I was so worried," Angela admitted between kisses, "I was so— _Ah!_ " Moira breached her with an off-kilter thrust, and the words turned into a shocked moan.  
  
She was so wet, there was no resistance at all, and another quick motion left her sheathed entirely inside Angela.

Relief was close. Seductively so. Just staying there, completely still yet locked together, could have sent her spiraling over the edge. So she kissed her, twisting a hand between them both to rub her clit, wanting desperately to please her.

Angela flinched, brow furrowing together, whining a little in confusion. Moira was using her right hand to touch her, which she never did. Days or even weeks after using the apparatus would leave her right hand cold to the touch, tender and aching. Moira wore gloves until it faded, even when they made love, even when they were in bed.

"Is it bad?" Moira asked, going still as she waited for some kind of response. If Angela would frown or twist away or show any sign of discomfort.

"It's cold." Angela's eyes stared into hers, blown wide with lust. Tenderness warred with curiosity, Angela weighing the new sensations against familiarity. "Nn, it's—  _cold_ , but you— you're so hot inside me." Her hands bunched up the back of Moira's sweater, scrabbling to try and touch her skin, to get more of Moira's naked body touching hers. "God, don't stop."

Pressing their foreheads together, Moira rocked against her. Her thrusts were slow even as her hand set a furious pace. She hummed in pleasure to feel Angela tightening around her, working circles on Angela's clit until she was shouting her name.

She fucked Angela harder, each thrust drawing another ragged moan out from her pretty white throat.

"I'm close."

Moira hissed the warning against her wife's open mouth, her hands on Angela's waist just in case she needed to push herself away. Angela's only response was to wrap her arms around Moira's neck, rolling her hips in time with Moira's to get her as deep as possible.

She came in a short, powerful burst. Completely quiet except for a staggered gasp. Old bad habit. She knew Angela liked the noises she made but it was so hard to remember that, just then. It was hard to think of anything except how she needed to be selfish right now, fucking her past the threshold of sensitivity because she loved the way it felt when Angela's come was mixed with hers.

In time, they both relaxed, lying together in silence.

Moira closed her eyes as her wife started stroking her head again, nails combing through her bright red hair. It was safety; it was home. Lying between Angela's open thighs, her head on Angela's chest. Their legs tangled together, sweat cooling from a frenzied session.

Only when Angela started shifting uncomfortably under her did she move, rolling to the side so she wasn't crushing her. Angela thanked her with a wry smile, tucking a finger under Moira's chin to angle her up for another kiss.

There were many different sides to Angela, but Moira thought she might like this one best. Angela so rarely relaxed. Ever aware, ever straight-backed and sharp-gazed. Her hair tucked back in a messy ponytail, those analytical eyes never missing a single detail.

But now, like this. Freshly fucked and satisfied, pleased with her. That was very good; that was worth killing for.

"Are you all right?" she asked Moira quietly, brushing her bangs out of her face.

"I am now," Moira said. It wasn't even a lie, not that she was ever very good at lying to Angela. Then she frowned, growing pensive. "It was bad out there.”

"I figured," Angela responded, still soothing her down with gentle touches. They had both been out in the field before, in war zones. Neither of them had ever reacted like this. "But I realize Jack probably put you through the ringer as soon as you landed. You can tell me in due time, liebling."

Moira set a hand over hers. "No."

And her wife waited, patiently. Outside the sun was rising, the third time since Venice.

"I'll tell you.[ I'll tell you everything.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iV5VKdcQOJE)"

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write some PWP before the new event inevitably mistreats Moira.
> 
> EDIT: now that the event is out this is horribly OOC but I don't care hahahha


End file.
